


Under The Thick Blood

by billspilledquill



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, I Continue to Abuse The Use of Hamilton's Eyes, M/M, Redcoat Hamilton, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 10:46:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10762677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: Alexander Hamilton choose to join the Crown. John Laurens choose to join the revolution. It started with a bullet in the chest.That was where everything clenched.





	Under The Thick Blood

Whenever there was freedom of expressionism and liberty of a storyline soon-be-fathom, there was always and surely the opposition and refusal of words.

They were in war, he kneeled down and blood slowly dripped down his mouth— _he wiped them with his back hand_ — there was no such thing as compromise between a color, between that ration of food or rational ideology— there was a choice, and each soldier was to take a step, to rebellion, or otherwise.

Behind all the bloodletting cuts and stabbed shoulders, there was something more like a demand, a command no longer being asked out loud, no matter what side it took, choose and it still won't escape death— _join or die._

 _Joining shouldn't exclude it though_ , he supposed. _It wasn't written._

The sun was tepid, unfolded during the shouts and waves of soldier clashes, a mixed of blue and red, but when the coats burned and gone from their vessels, they were painted in red. They bleed in red.

He gasped in surprise and horror when his friend got that slow and almost too fast bullet in his chest, _almost in a second_ — his breath answered— _almost in a heartbeat_ —his ventricle suggested—

 _Almost every minute_ — his mind was more honest.

He ran to his friend, shooting his name and holding his head, wandered around to search for a doctor— an aide— everything. Nothing but more chaos and gun bullets sending his condolences with a lack of warmth but more typical at wartime— he grunted and caught one last glance to his friend, urging him to go.

_Join or die, or else they have to keep to be alive anyway._

Laurens groaned and dropped his friend's cold body, the one last temperature being that crimson blood and gore out of that little hole from the sliver— the silver bullet that barely happened to be anything but unfortunate. He went on, looking for the one who send that aim. On these imperceptible imperfections in their heartless red— he locked with a soldier, defiant and almost saying at a first glance what he was searching for.

 _I pulled the trigger, grow up, child_.

He clenched his fists and stared straight into the deepest blue— almost shining under the sun on full-scope as Laurens tried to not to feel startled by the sheer stubbornness and the almost lightening face when the redcoat set into position—still looked slightly overexposed and mostly overexcited— and fire at them, a surge of satisfaction on his face, as if a cat caught his favorite toy.

His narrowed shoulders, slim and slight structure made him only more frustrated— he powered his musket, preparing to shoot into that laid into his skull at any moment— _so who is really the child, huh?_

The man set another glance to his side, a little jump when he saw Laurens' target, but then just smirked, turned away, a sign of a challenge that may cost the boy's life— _or his._

Whenever there was freedom of expressionism and liberty of a storyline soon-be-fathom, there was always and surely the opposition and refusal of words.

And now he was both, torn in between a liberty that did not belong to anyone but raging battlefield, in between the refusal of seeing his friend again—lying and dying and struggling to something called honor and pride. _America_.

For a moment he just froze there, a couple of inches between the redcoat and him, wondering when it had become like this, when reaching freedom had became a misguided flag of burned flame, a couple of shots to take and a someone to kill.

But that instant of yellow and blind rage, he cocked the trigger, a little regret swung like ships in ocean, but then he remembered that job had to be done, and his sole purpose to be here was to slide every throat with a royal badge on it.

No representation— _then no victory will be written on books?_ No names to be remembered, yet it was still here— _in 1777_ — fires at the Battle of Warren—a great lost for Americans.

A shout of retreat pulled him out of the room for future, he blinked and stared at the fields, the boy gone, lost in the room of present, red and blue corpses on the ground, covering the grassroots image of a massacre. The retreat was messy and difficult, they stepped on their own soldiers' bodies in order to fear for their lives.

Rain was pouring down, slowly but surely. It almost felt like God would faithfully cover for their escape. The drops made sounds that whispered a steady but an old clock, willing to break.

He turned his head, still wanting to plant that missing bullet into the man's face, not finished with his anger of a sudden childishness, that revenge was a such a sweet blinding thing he could crave for more.

"What are you doing, colonel!" Someone dragged him by force, "We will have to retreat, sir! And quick!"

A captain hat swirled into the sky, danced alone with rounds unrelated to each circle, he looked up, the boy was standing here, a bit behind from the cordial and ruled troops, watching with almost amazement the dancing hat, the boy's red-sand bright and willing to flew.

He caught his glance, and a hardened look was given to him, almost a mocking contrast about the captain lost in poetry from a winded hat and a sunny mild wind with rain still damping the terrains.

That hardened look slowly turned into one of an amusing child, daring and unusually sharp. The person gave up to trying to get him apart from going, he ran instead to the west, like other American soldiers.

His mouth formed a shape that suggest he was talking, no sound, only vision subsisted in this case. _Missed, child_. After that and lips craved into a cat like, malicious mischief in which Laurens did not enjoy as much as another redcoat, coming to the boy and grabbed his arm, turned to east.

That childlike soldier's eyes were soon soften, turned his back, and didn't put a glance back ever again to his side.

Laurens was left there shaking, a musket still in hand, furious by the lack of charge in this weapon and the distance between them. If he will ever found them again, he will personally deal with these redcoats, by giving them a gentle aim for gentlemen of their rank.

_He could kill me, right here, but my life is too worthless to be taken?_

Hatred boiled down like hellish whispers, as he faced west, ran to join his own troops.

 _Next time_ , he promised, _next time_ and he will be the one and smirk at him, and his bullet will claim territory in that laid's skull.

That fight was a British victory. Somehow he can put the fault on the man and have another reason to trade his life to his friend's.

 _Just you wait_ , he said to himself, _wait and see._

 

 

 

"Colonel Laurens." Washington looked exhausted by the task, looking more exasperated than any features of anger, "I have been informed about your lost. Be remind about the conditions we are in." He firmly closed the conversation and wondered elsewhere, though maybe more to give him space than any lack of affection.

He grunted and walked outside of the headquarters. His head spinning with a great intention to never let him sleep tonight. Words swung and hit his skull like lashes, hot and still relevant _missed, child_.

_I pulled the trigger, grow up, child._

"Are you alright, Laurens?"

The smooth and warm voice made him looked up. Lafayette set his eyes on him with great concern, "Laurens? Can you hear me?"

"Oh, y-yeah." He stumbled on his words, feeling ashamed afterwards. Lafayette laughed.

"Thinking about someone?" He waggled his eyebrows playfully, and walked ahead, bringing his ration of food for him. "I believe it's a good thing, since your friend—", he realized and stopped himself with an embarrassed chuckle, "since war isn't the best thing to daydream about for the moment. "

_I am thinking about a redcoat who killed my friend I am thinking about a soldier who is too childish to remember that war is not a game I am thinking about a man who is worth to be killed, and I will be the one—_

"It's nothing," He lied, "I was just tired."

Lafayette eyed him a moment and didn't object his dismissal, "Isn't we all?", he sat at the common tables, opening his ration, "You are just too hot blooded to notice your circles under your eyes, Laurens."

"It's _aren't we_ , Lafayette," he corrected him mercilessly, Lafayette gave a pout and continued eating the disgusting idea of a food, "I have that plan, I told you, we can built—"

"Yes, yes, the black battalion we know and wish, I totally agree on this matter, but you should probably stop listing it every day, my ears hurt." That said, he covered his ears just to make it seemed worse, "Eat your food, child, and stop thinking for once."

_I pulled the trigger, grow up, child._

He closed his eyes, hold his nose, and pretend that he was not thinking and totally enjoyed the smashed cabbage and carrots mix.

 _Missed_.

 

 

 

He missed.

Under another chapter of fusillades and screams, they faced each other, with some mysterious magnet like situation, they found each other in ten thousands pools of deaths.

He shoot, without hesitation, towards the blue eyes when the proprietor was busy to load his ammunition, hoped for the end of the cycle of vengeance to end here, right now. Civilizations clenched on ideologies, but also on swordsmanship.

But he _missed_. And he felt it should be the beginning of another cycle, something else than revenge, something more. Something beyond loathing and simple dislike.

He hit the other one, the friend the soldier went with last time.

When he hit the ground, the redhead frantically ran to him, shouting his name, shaking with more anger than sorrow. Laurens looked at the bloody scene and thought about his friend.

"Andre!" The man shouted, shaking the immune body and swore with despair, "Fuck! _Who_ —"

Their eyes connected, and the soldier's eyes widened in realization, though he should already know, he was there when he fired. _Probably in shock_ , Laurens thought.

He grunted and a screeching sound loud enough that he can hear it an field away from him, tears were made decorative with his reddened cheeks and his eyes suggested a hatred better than a simple blue difference of coats, better than ideological fervor, it was pure, true _hatred_. Hard as iron, thicker than the blood they were losing right away.

It was a barricade between hatred and disgust. But it can be both.

He was not a sadist, either a one to show love for torture, but he can't help but whispered out, as the laid grabbed his musket, ready to return the favor.

_You didn't shot me last time, coward._

Before he even try to dodge the bullet he knew it will be send to him sooner or later, a sharp cry from the laid made him realize someone shot him. On the _shoulder_.

"You are late, colonel Laurens." Lafayette patted him on the head, "Was this the boy you were thinking? You two were looking at each other like any minute you will kill the other."

He looked at the laid, covering his shoulder and sending one last piercing glance at him and Lafayette, a smile to his friend, retreated with not much elegance.

He hoped it hurt.

"Let just say I give him what he deserves. Besides, remember it's _à la américaine et non à la françoise_."

Lafayette laughed and gave him a fist, "We have a war to fight."

Laurens bumped his fist in return, "We have a war to fight."

 

 

 

"You looked happy, Laurens. You know we lost the battle, right?"

"Yeah," He said with a big smile on his face, "It's just that it's a quite lovely day, Laf."

Lafayette shrugged, delighted, "If you say so."

 

 

 

He was sleeping under the thin blankets and soil like ground, until a soldier came to for tell him that he was summoned by Washington.

This was common thing to do between Washington's aides, he liked to keep them all in one place, just in case for situations like this. He nodded and quickly dressed himself. Washington wasn't one to complain about their night features, forgiving for the hour of the day.

He took care to not wake up anyone, they have poor hours to sleep, so he wasn't one to break their dreams even more than when they woke up and found themselves in war, in poor resources and cold blankets.

The boots made some unexpected noises, but everyone was too tired to notice.

He knocked on the door, and when his Excellency's approval was heard, he opened it, revealed a full dressed general with the eloquence of the morning light.

"Your Excellency," He greeted with a short bow, "You called."

Washington's hands were firm and strong on the wooden table and small mountains of paper stacks. "Yes, colonel. I have an order to deliver."

He straightened himself under the weight of his general's gaze, knowing that any order can be commanded in the morning, but this one was urgent.

"A redcoat was caught this night, trying to invade our headquarters." He stated while Laurens didn't have the energy to spare to laugh at the impulsiveness of the man, "He was alone, but we know for one that he was at least a captain, if not a colonel."

Laurens' voice was suspicious, "Are you sure this isn't a trap for them, sir? No one wonder in its enemy camp alone, to say a captain or colonel would do this is—"

"Incredulous indeed." Washington finished the sentence nonchalantly, "We can't assume his venue's purpose, but he refused to let a word slip past his tongue. A spy would gladly give us fake informations already."

"It can be tactics—"

"We do not know, colonel." Washington snapped, "That's why I call you there. You will have to let him talk. Remember, his informations can be crucial to our next move."

Washington's eyes smoothed down, almost with regrets, he said, "I will give you a month. Do not worry too much, that lad seems to be a gentleman."

"We settled him in my quarters," He continued, "a windowless one with no chance of escape. We chain him, so that he won't attack you or any of my boys." The words slipped by and no one dare to smile for a moment before Washington dismiss him, "It will be all, colonel Laurens. Have a good rest."

"Has he anything I have to remember before I go to his cell?" He recalled, knowing that this prisoner had a great importance in their plans.

Washington shook his head sharply, "There's nothing we extracted from him. This is on your account, colonel. You shall go to his cell with his food ration tomorrow."

Laurens gave in for another bow, "Of course, sir. Have a good rest, your Excellency."

When he reached the door, Washington's voice was a distant whisper, "Do not force yourself too much, son. The laid can be determined, if not stubborn."

"Thank you, your Excellency." He opened the door when he heard an almost muffled sound, under scribbled papers and correspondence.

"I am sorry for your loss."

He didn't answered, knowing that if he pretend he didn't hear anything, Washington will gladly pretend the same. It was late night, he was probably too tired to remember anyway.

(So he could seal this loss inside, and _bleed when he can't remember_.)

 

 

 

He can't seal.

He can't conceal the surge of surprise and hatred deep in his throat when he saw the same lad, despite the ruined coats and cuts and bruises everywhere visible on his face, his eyes didn't change, still, unmarked, unimpressed and _unmoved_. If he can identify this laid in that ten-thousands soldiers field, he can identify him there, broken in this some square feet cell.

The lad didn't even raise his voice when he took the food, but his shaking hands and disgusted eyes showed that he knew exactly who he was.

Despite Laurens' surprise and the revulsive idea of spending one month with this hell of a prisoner, he can't help but feeling smug and smirked at his current condition.

"John Laurens, at your service, _sir_."

The sound of muffled eating was the only answer he got from him.

**Author's Note:**

> I am really not sure if I am continuing this, since I have another fic to work on (and finals are near *sobs*), it fully depends on the support I have 
> 
> Anyway, thank you so so much for reading!!!!! Send y'all huggies and cookies!!!


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